


The Dedicated Detective

by mia6363



Series: Mayor Peter Hale [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Investigations, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Violence, Werewolves, grey morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 03:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13561410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: If Stiles’s father was no longer reliable… if Stiles’s father no longer had interest in the work he’daskedStiles for help with…Then Stiles would have to find someone who was reliable.





	The Dedicated Detective

_You have your mother’s eyes._

People always said that to Stiles. The words came with a shiver and averted gaze, as though they thought that with her death they’d been freed of something… something that Stiles had inside of him to continue. 

For the longest time he didn’t agree. His mother had been endlessly patient and had an everyday eloquence that Stiles would never attain. Stiles had never met someone who treated each individual with as much focus and importance as his mother. When people remarked on his eyes, Stiles shrugged it off as folks being uncomfortable with having to talk to him, and if he really _stretched_ for an explanation, _maybe_ their eyes had similiar color qualities, though his mother’s were much lighter. Stiles thought his eyes were ugly, like coffee grounds or muddy water. 

When his dad slammed home in an early January evening, Stiles felt his eyes sharpen and clear. 

“Stiles?” 

His father called out, like he usually did when he wasn’t sure if his son was home. Stiles had come home early from the library… and in any other instance he would have answered his father.The sting of _tension_ in his father’s voice kept Stiles silent. He waited eighty-seven seconds until he heard his father’s footsteps continue downstairs. Stiles held his breath and rolled out of bed, his feet light as he snuck to the door and eased it open. 

He heard liquid slosh loudly in a container and his father breathe heavily. Stiles crept to the stairway, pressing close to the walls so he remained in the shadows. The sound of rough treatment of fabric and the clatter of boots filled the house and after a few sharp exhales, Stiles watched his father leave out the front door, locking it behind him. He noticed that he had on a fresh uniform, one of the spares he always kept on hand in the coat closet. 

Stiles waited, two-hundred and forty-nine seconds for his father to pull out of the driveway. 

Every fall of his foot on each stair felt like he was moving through thick mud. Something prickled along the back of his neck, a warning. He could turn back now, Stiles remembered thinking. He could go back to reading, to doodling in his notebook and coming up with a new code for dinner conversations—

He could turn away and pretend he never saw his father’s neatly pressed uniform, different from the one he wore that morning. He could pretend he didn’t hear the frantic tone in his father’s voice, almost _begging_ Stiles not to answer. 

Stiles went to their coat closet. The doorknob held a lingering warmth from his father’s hand. Stiles twisted it and pulled. 

A red can of gasoline was inside, with a crumpled heap of clothes on top. Stiles knelt down to grab the clothes. They were his father’s uniform, wrinkled from a day’s wear. 

He brought his father’s uniform to his nose and smelled gasoline despite there being very little left in the can. 

Stiles wished he had his mother’s strength. He’d seen his mother move without fear, without a shred of doubt that she belonged exactly where she was, that she was _doing_ exactly what she needed to be doing. It was why people didn’t like looking at her for too long, because they didn’t know what to do when faced with such absolution. 

He jerked back, his hands hitting the wood _hard_ , hard enough for white spots of pain to cloud his vision. Stiles kicked the door shut, as if his dad’s wrinkled clothes were going to shred him into pieces. Stiles turned and ran to his room. Every pull of air into his lungs felt soggy, heavy, and when Stiles fumbled with his radio his eyes stung. His fingers were numb as he isolated the signal. 

_“— fire reported on Gelfand Drive, 904 Gelfand Drive—”_

Stiles dropped his radio. He didn’t have to double-check the address. 

His mother would have been calm. His mother would have known exactly what to do. 

Stiles’s breaths kept coming faster and faster. The prickle of unease that had formed when his father first called out to him had grown into a howl. Stiles’s eyes were frozen wide and his mouth hung agape as he sucked in too much air. He rushed to the bathroom just in time to throw up in the sink. 

With the first heave, Stiles thought, _I’ll burn it all down. If dad doesn’t care about it anymore, than neither do I._

He could easily go back downstairs, get the can of gasoline, pull up his floorboards and soak all of his and his father’s findings on Peter Hale. Picturing it was satisfying, but shallow and fleeting. 

Stiles’s knuckles were white against the rim of the sink. The second heave burned, his stomach empty but his muscles still contracting like he had more to expel. He washed his mouth out with cold water. Every time he swallowed he tasted his lingering bile. His fists eventually unclenched and Stiles was left with a nebulous future. 

He thought, perhaps a bit childishly, _mom would know what to_. 

Stiles wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and took his first step forward. The first step was all it took, his legs didn’t lock and his father didn’t come storming back into the house armed with more gasoline and desperation. Stiles cleaned the bathroom, checked that everything in the coat closet appeared untouched, and went back to his room. He carefully removed the floorboards and took out his most recent notebook.

He wrote down that day’s date and wrote: _No math problems and no additional extra credit._

A stray tear slipped down his nose and smudged the letters. When Peter Hale had won his first election, his father had been hesitant. He’d agreed with Stiles. Peter Hale wasn’t bad… but he also wasn’t _good_. And then _things_ had started to happen all around town, Peter knew about conversations Stiles had with his father in private, and no matter how hard they searched they couldn’t find any bugs in the house, but they knew they were there. His father had asked Stiles… he’d woken him up in the middle of the night and asked…

_Stiles… I need your help with something._

Stiles wiped his nose and with every breath his answer became more and more clear. Air in his lungs stopped burning and renewed his energy. If Stiles’s father was no longer reliable… if Stiles’s father no longer had interest in the work he’d _asked_ Stiles for help with… 

Then Stiles would have to find someone who was reliable. 

::::

People started disappearing or suddenly moving. That had been the beginning of the weird things that now plagued Beacon Hills. 

Stiles was ten when Peter Hale was elected, ten and a half when his father had needed help. He remembered how _scared_ his father had looked, how alone he seemed. Stiles remembered how it felt to hug him, how despite his father’s arms being stronger, it felt as though _Stiles_ was the one holding his father as his little voice whispered in the dark, _What do you want me to do?_

The first step, according to his father, was to establish absolute reliability and trust with a partner. And his father’s partner in this investigation was Stiles. 

The first step had been easy because _of course_ Stiles trusted his father and _of course_ his father trusted Stiles. They were each other’s constants. At the end of every day, no matter what was discovered, Stiles and the Sheriff would be there. 

Stiles remembered sitting at the kitchen table, pencil in his hand as his father gently explained that observation was the most important. Because half a block of people were either gone or _moved_ seemingly overnight. 

_We have to watch everything. We’ll set up a code for how we talk about it, but for right now,_ his father had tapped Stiles’s first worn notebook that had a golden sticker on it for acing his spelling test, _write everything down._

Stiles had been fourteen for three months when he stepped into the library. He made sure to take his time, browsing through science fiction as he always did. The science fiction section expanded to the back of the library and had windows that passed the parking lot that wrapped around the building. 

Once Erica’s Green Volvo (geometry) pulled out of the parking lot, Stiles abandoned the science fiction stacks and walked to the local archives. He made sure not to walk too fast, not to look anxious as he took the long way around the back, through non-fiction, under the harsh fluorescent lights that led him to the musty stacks in archives. 

Gloria Spairow sat at one of the tables set aside for researchers. 

Stiles ducked between the stacks and caught his breath, his heart thudding against his rib cage. He’d been trying to get to her for the past two weeks. Two weeks of Stiles pedaling on his bike from school, hoping to cross paths with Gloria. Two weeks of either just missing her or Erica sticking around too long for Stiles to get close. He flexed his fingers, chasing away the numbness that had gathered there. He left his hiding place and approached. 

After her house burned down Gloria stayed at a motel on the edge of town, but more often than not she was at the library, if not her office. Stiles understood the need to be in public, to be seen as much as possible. He pulled up a chair and sat across from her. 

Gloria glanced up and her glasses slid down her nose as she smiled. 

“Hello, Stiles.” She got up and opened her arms. Stiles leaned across the table and hugged her, pushing down the sour guilt that rose in his throat. “It’s been a while. How have you been?” 

She whispered even though there was no one around. Stiles felt the familiar flutter of terror seize his chest and he swallowed it, forcing a smile. Two weeks he’d been trying to get Gloria alone, two weeks Stiles had drafted up a new code while maintaining the old one with his father, _two weeks_ and Stiles had never felt more alone and now was his one chance to take the _first step_.

Gloria’s eyes caught something in Stiles’s expression. She leaned back, her eyes darting to make sure no one was nearby as Stiles dropped his backpack to the floor. 

“I’ve been good.” Stiles swallowed and took out his fresh notebook and opened the first page. He wrote quickly before he slid it over to her. “School is fine. I’m hoping to get an internship this summer maybe.” Gloria took his notebook and Stiles watched her eyes drop to the page. “How have you been?”

 _I know who burned your house down._

“I,” Gloria’s throat bobbed and when she met Stiles’s eyes his heart stopped. “I’m good. The motel isn’t that bad but I’m rarely there, just waiting for insurance.” 

She mouthed _who_ and pushed Stiles’s notebook back to him. He knew Gloria was suspicious of Peter. He knew because her articles were decisive and thorough. He knew that his father had worked with Gloria. He gripped his pen and wrote quickly. He pushed the paper back, and Gloria turned his book around—

Her face fell, slack in shock. Stiles supposed she thought it was someone more connected to the mayor, perhaps Peter himself. Her fingers dug into the paper momentarily as all the pieces slid together until the puzzle was finally completed. The Sheriff had withdrawn his investigation and had no plans on gathering any more evidence. If anything, he was very interested in destroying it. 

Gloria’s eyes watered, shimmering with grief for a moment. She took five long breaths, and when she blinked her tears were gone. Stiles took back the notebook, moving slow so he didn’t startle her. He wrote, his grip on the pen tight. 

_My father has given up. I have not. You were working with my father, I’m hoping now you will work with me._

His mother was a beacon in her own way. Stiles’s father said that he loved her for how she saw the world, for how she accepted truths and changed with the tides, but always faced forward. When he talked about her… it felt as though his mother had been a captain of a ship, his father her first mate as they navigated an expansive and beautiful ocean. Stiles wished he’d known his mother better, he wished… 

He wished for a lot of things. 

Beacon Hills was not an ocean and he was not a sea captain. Stiles was fourteen and he desperately didn’t want to lose his father. 

Gloria’s penmanship was elegant and thin. 

_What have you got?_

The coil that tightened in Stiles’s chest loosened a tad, allowing him to smile as he replied. 

_Four years of accounts. Investigations and listening, all written and recorded. We should talk, somewhere with a lot of noise._

Gloria gathered up her books and took Stiles to the copy room. She dug around in her bag and pulled out various papers, large stacks and then sent them through all four copiers. Gloria turned to him with a smile and Stiles went up on the tips of his toes so he could whisper by her ear. 

“If we’re going to be partners, we’re going to need to rely and trust each other.” 

::::

Stiles was a young kid and adults had the habit of talking like he wasn’t there. Stiles understood, a lot of kids his age didn’t pay attention to “grown-ups.” Why worry about things their parents had to take care of? Stiles used his age and face to his advantage, listening to snippets of conversations in his school and at the bus stop. 

Flyers were appearing in mailboxes for amazing deals on homes outside of Beacon Hills, though it seemed to be targeting certain families, ones with criminal backgrounds… though there were a few outliers that Stiles couldn’t figure out why were included. Small towns had a way of keeping a lot of facts unspoken yet universally known. The first family to leave was Thomas Dowell and his wife Sherry. 

To the public eye, Thomas Dowell was a police officer. 

Unspoken and yet universally known, however, was that Thomas Dowell was an alcoholic who had a habit of being a little too rough on suspects. He was lazy, loud, and always hit Stiles’s shoulder too hard when he punched it. 

A smattering of similar people, who necessarily weren’t _criminals_ in the sense of calling for arrest… but people who toed that line were moving out, getting better offers for schooling and housing in other towns. Peter Hale’s speeches were always about improving Beacon Hills, creating a better life and culture in their little town… but it was happening at such a speed that it was as though Peter had a list of those who could stay and those _who had to leave._

Peter Hale weeded out those he felt didn’t deserve his vision of Beacon Hills, and he did so with a kind flyer and a friendly push in the other direction. 

The second step was to make sure to remember what _normalcy_ was like, and to not become complacent. Acting complacent was fine, but the second step was to _remember_ what they were working towards. 

His father had a whiteboard in the basement and every night he was home from work, he’d bring Stiles down to the basement and they’d add their findings to the board. Peter Hale was at the top, and beneath him were his team. Kira Yukimura, Erica Reyes, Boyd Vernon, and Bobby Finstock. Beneath those four names were the various projects and _mysterious occurrences_ they were tied to.

 _It will be hard to remember what it was like before,_ Stiles’s father reassured him late one night in the basement. His father’s hands were rough, calloused, and a comfort on Stiles’s shoulder as he pinned another budgetary change under Finstock’s name. _Remind yourself every night: this is not normal._

Stiles knew it wasn't normal. A kid his age shouldn’t be spying on the town, shouldn’t be keeping up with local politics and splitting hairs over _seemingly slight_ budgetary changes. He’d seen movies. He knew that kids his age should be making friends, playing baseball or joining Boy Scouts. 

Instead Stiles wrote in coded logs, carried two notebooks with him in school, and wrote secret conversations with his father at the dinner table. Stiles kept track of the cars that lingered outside of their house until he no longer had _math problems that were too hard to explain_. He learned their schedule. Tuesday late-nights were either Erica or Boyd. Thursday late-nights were Kira. Stiles coded his father’s daily logs and hid them under the floorboards in his room. 

Stiles had no idea how to play kickball, but he knew police codes like the back of his hand. Stiles didn’t get invited to birthday parties from the kids at school, but he did get to add to the ongoing board in the basement with his dad. Stiles never went to school dances, but his dad bought him a special phone that was just for them. 

Gloria’s insurance money came in the mail. Inside her mailbox was a flyer for homes in the next town over. A few calls came in from head hunters who’d read her work, they were eager to have her in _their_ towns. Even a few colleges called. 

“He wants you out.” Gloria used a tiny amount of her new money to buy them both burner phones and cheap laptops. “It’s exactly what happened during the first exodus.” Still, they could only speak freely at the library, feeding blank papers through the copy machines to keep the room noisy. Stiles worried the sleeve of his sweater between his fingers. “Are you gonna take it?” 

“I’m going to definitely look, maybe go on a few interviews.” Gloria smirked. “To really sell it.” 

It took a week, but Stiles made handwritten copies of him and his father’s logs and reconstructed their basement whiteboard to the best of his ability with the help from photos and improvised yarn. He directed Gloria through Skype on the placement of information on her very own whiteboard in her motel. Though they’d made it in code. 

To anyone who broke in… it looked like Gloria was going all out in recipe gathering. 

In return, Gloria gave Stiles what she had left. And after months of Stiles feeling like he was going nowhere, it was like he was finally let up from being held underwater. Air never tasted sweeter. He was finally… not alone. 

“It’s obvious why I’m doing this.” Gloria re-fed paper through the copiers. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to be like your father?” 

Stiles was certain it would be easier. He thought about it, that night in the bathroom when he’d thrown up with the smell of gasoline stuck in his nostrils. Stiles imagined it, dumbing himself down until all his work with him and his dad would have been like a dream. But just because something was easy… didn’t mean it was right. 

“I’m doing this because my father gave up.” Stiles rubbed his arm, his shoulders hunching inward. “I’m going to save him. Show him that it’s not hopeless. If Peter is as bad as he seems… I’d rather know about it than surrender.” 

Stiles’s phone pinged, his ten-minute warning that his dad would be there to pick him up. Gloria smiled and pocketed the new logs. She gave him a firm hug. 

“See you next week. Stay safe.” 

Stiles nodded and was off, the sounds of paper being copied ringing in his ears. 

::::

His father and Stiles made all sorts of different plans if the worst happened. They planned out elaborate and quick exists from every place they frequented. Stiles had ten different ways to leave school and three were unnoticeable. Stiles and his father learned how to read the woods. His father taught him how to navigate with paper maps and compasses. Stiles learned about plants, moss, and by the time he was twelve he could comfortably find his way home under the cover of trees from anywhere in Beacon Hills. 

_It’s just us,_ his father would say as they walked the woods together. _I want… I want to make sure we do everything we can to stay safe. To keep each other safe._

His dad never said, _we’re all we have left_ , out loud. 

The third step was to always keep the essentials on you and have pick-up points for more close-by. Stiles always carried his special phone on him, always had his notebooks, compass, two bottles of water, and a pen light. Stiles made sure to carry forty dollars on him at all times, but never in his wallet so it wouldn’t get stolen. 

It had been him and his dad against the world. It didn’t matter if Stiles didn’t have any friends at school, it didn’t matter if he was always picked last during gym, and it didn’t matter if his teachers forgot his name— but it didn’t matter because him and his dad were going to save Beacon Hills. 

Stiles was at Peter’s holiday party. 

It was a big, loud event where the entire town was invited. 

There was a DJ named Adam who had seamless and expansive tastes, the waiting staff were quick to laugh and were courteous, and Stiles had gotten all their business cards out of Kira’s purse. He photographed them and returned them. He had no clue where his dad was, the last time Stiles saw him was at the start where he’d given Stiles a half-hug and said “I’m going to find Peter.” 

Kira was dancing with Finstock, and Boyd was on the sidelines taking pictures. Erica sipped hot chocolate at the bar (Stiles knew it was hot chocolate because she’d offered him some, the cup overflowing with marshmallows). 

Derek and Cora were sitting at a table, talking quietly as the town celebrated around them. Stiles knew he _should_ go over to them. They had that awkward relationship of _our parents/guardians are dating so I guess that makes us friends now._

Instead, Stiles slipped through the crowd until he was on the edges of the courtyard, in a bench hidden by shadow as he took out his second special phone, the one that only had Gloria’s number in it. 

He sent the pictures of the business cards to her. Depending on what towns they were from would help Stiles decide where he should start digging next. He lifted Peter’s entire itinerary for the past year from Kira’s laptop. Kira was very sweet, and it was a special mixture of too trusting and not being technologically savvy that left Stiles have five minutes alone with her laptop and a flash drive. Stiles fired off the last picture and pocketed his phone, leaning back and closing his eyes. 

He wondered what his mother would think of the Beacon Hills holiday parties. They were colorful, garish, and would put Gatsby to shame. Everyone was allowed to come, everyone was encouraged to have a good time, and Peter footed the bill. 

Stiles wondered if his mother would be out dancing, or if she’d be with him, catching his breath on the outskirts—

“Stiles?” His eyes flew open and _Mayor Peter Hale_ sat next to him, his arm falling around Stiles’s shoulders. “Is everything alright?” 

It was so dark and Stiles couldn’t see Peter’s face. He hadn’t heard him walk up. He had no idea how long Peter had been there, if he saw Stiles’s second phone, if Peter had been watching him long before he left the dance floor— Stiles jerked, instinctively. 

“Sorry.” Stiles trembled and Peter didn’t recoil. “You scared me.” 

He heard Peter’s lips pull back into a grin, he saw his teeth glint in the faint purple, red, and gold lights that pulsed from the party. 

“I have that effect on people.” Stiles didn’t have to see it to know that Peter winked. “How are you doing?” 

Stiles’s breath puffed out in clouds of white and he knew he couldn’t lie and say that he was fine, his posture was too twisted and tense. He sniffed. 

“Okay. I mean, I just needed a break from the noise, you know?” 

Peter hummed, a low rumble in his chest. 

“I empathize sincerely and entirely.” Stiles huffed a laugh because Peter Hale was a _charming bastard_. Stiles felt his shoulders relax inch by inch until his heart wasn’t a hollow roar in his ears and his skin wasn’t covered in cold sweat. He leaned back against Peter, in the crook of Peter’s arm, and Peter pulled Stiles closer, friendly and warm. “I didn’t mean to steal your father away tonight. He’s out on the dance floor now.” 

Stiles saw through the levity in Peter’s tone right away. The lights from the DJ’s booth did another long sweep of blue light, and Stiles caught the concern in Peter’s gaze. 

“You make him happy. You’re not _stealing_ anything.” Stiles’s voice fucking _cracked_ and he might as well have yanked all the power cords out of the walls to stop the music. Stiles needed to resolve this as fast as possible, he needed to get _back out in the public sight_ and he needed to stop being alone in the dark with the mayor. “Look I… sometimes it stings. But it’s… I just need to wait for my maturity to catch up with me.” Stiles sniffed and stood up, feeling better the moment Peter’s arm was off his shoulders. “I just want my dad to be happy and safe. “

Peter stood with him, unfolding like a praying mantis. 

“That’s all I want for your father as well, Stiles.” And Stiles almost rolled his eyes as another sweep of blue lights washed over them. Peter’s face cast in deep shadow but Stiles was all lit up for the mayor to see. His eyes welled with tears he couldn’t suppress and his bobbing throat wouldn’t loosen. Peter’s fingers closed around Stiles’s shoulder in a firm grip. “But I want that for you as well. I just,” the blue light left them, releasing Stiles back to the dark. “I just want you to know that.” 

They walked out of the dark together, the noise and music slowly growing louder until they were back in the party. Stiles breathed easier as he stepped into full view of everyone. He turned to see Peter smiling at him. Stiles smiled back and nudged the man with his elbow. It was playful and tactile. It didn’t reveal the terror that still rattled Stiles down to his toes. The lights did another sweep as the song changed—

Stiles’s mouth fell open and for a moment he was mindlessly happy as he bounced to the beat.

[ “I love this song!”  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kaFygeknae8)

The effect was instantaneous, Stiles’s face was slack except for his smile. Derek and Cora were up on their feet and it was Cora who turned, her hair shimmering in the lights. 

“Stiles!” She grabbed his hand and _pulled_ him onto the dance floor. “I was looking for you!”

Stiles was light on his feet, everyone moved to the beat and the lights throbbed in time to the song’s fast pace, Stiles threw his head back— and saw that Peter was still on the edge of the dance floor. His grin had faded into a smile, but it was satisfied, _knowing_. Mid jump, Stiles thought of all the times he played this song in his room. 

His feet hit the floor, he kept smiling at Cora and Derek, and he kept dancing to the next ten songs that were all songs he loved. He’d almost slipped into the pleasantly hypnotic lull. The lights, the music, the people, Peter Hale made a persuasive case to just sit back, relax, dance, and have a great time. People were _eager_ to not pay attention. 

By the time Stiles pulled himself away from the dance floor his limbs were like jelly and his face ached from smiling. He sat down at the bar and a mug of hot chocolate was pushed into his hand without Stiles having to say a word. 

Finstock sat with his dad at one of the tables, his hands and face animated. Erica and Kira danced, and somewhere Boyd was taking beautiful snapshots. Stiles’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He sipped his hot chocolate. It was smoother than silk and was hot but not enough to burn his tongue. 

Tomorrow Stiles would wake up with crusty eyes with his ears still ringing from the loud music and laughter. Tomorrow he would eat breakfast with his dad and they’d lounge in their pajamas on the couch. Tomorrow things would continue on as the new normal. 

_I’m going to save you._

Stiles tasted blood in his mouth, the vow burning in his mind with unhinged fury as he stared at his father. His father who met his eyes and smiled. His father who waved him over. He watched his father call his name, his mouth falling around the shape of Stiles’s name. His voice was lost in the music. Stiles stood. When he swallowed he tasted copper and salt. 

_I’m going to save you and you won’t give up, not again._

The songs changed, to another right off of Stiles’s youtube history. He danced, he smiled, and he had a merry time. 

Tomorrow he’d get back to work with Gloria. 

::::

Mitchell Lahey had been the start his father’s change. 

The accident haunted him, Stiles could tell by how it pulled at his father’s eyes and lips. They spent hours in the basement going over the fact that there were no skid marks and that the blood-alcohol content was so high Mitchell shouldn’t have been able to keep breathing, let alone get into a car and drive over five miles from his house. Stiles had his father’s medical reference books open. 

_It could have been an injection,_ Stiles had suggested, _that could explain why it was so potent._

By injecting the alcohol straight into the bloodstream with no filter… it would be lethal. Gloria brought up Erica Reyes’s past with Mitchell, how his charges had placed her prison. The same prison where Kate Argent was sent… and later murdered. His father and Stiles had stared at their white board, at Erica, at the notes about her unknown benefactor, and at Peter Hale’s smiling face. 

Stiles bounced on his feet and snapped his fingers. 

_What if the wounds were created with the specific purpose of looking like a vehicular accident?_

His father had been quiet. Stiles thought he was thinking of how to further the investigation, how to inspect the body to find the point of injection, or maybe how to confront Erica on her alibi. His father swallowed and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. 

_You really think he could do something like that?_

The fourth step was to remember that everyone is capable of anything and everything. 

After Mitchell Lahey’s death, his father had focused on surviving and escape methods. He taught his Stiles how to tie and escape different knots. He sat his son down and told him that, no matter what, he wanted him to do whatever it took to stay alive. Stiles saw so much fear in his father’s eyes. Fear for each other, for what would happen when they went up against someone who had no moral limitations. 

Peter’s itinerary provided some interesting names, as well as Gloria’s own research into the city budget. Peter was taking massive pay cuts to his salary, and was using it to redistribute funds back into the city. Through some digging… Gloria found that Peter’s official salary was twenty-four thousand dollars a year. 

“That’s not possible.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “He can’t live on that. There’s no fucking way.”

Gloria’s lips twitched, like she wanted to remind Stiles to watch his language. She nodded, going over her notes in the copy room at the library. 

“His salary isn’t enough for the work that’s gone on. It’s privately funded but no record of who it’s coming from and what kind of deals he’s striking up. It’s like… he’s a part of the most convoluted organized crime syndicate in history.” Gloria crossed her arms. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

Stiles had a map copied and marked down every odd name from Peter’s itinerary. Soon the map was covered in red specks, almost leaving Beacon Hills completely surrounded except for one town to the south. 

“It’s not like he’s raising taxes, right? Or something like that?” Gloria shook her head and Stiles stared down at the map. “What does he have that he could use as leverage?” 

The copiers stopped but Stiles didn’t go to re-feed the machines. His mind spiraled in silence because there was something major missing from the puzzle and he couldn’t think of _what_. Drugs, human trafficking, gambling… there wasn’t a trace of anything like that in Beacon Hills. Peter Hale was squeaky clean. But people didn’t get the kind of money that was rolling through Peter Hale’s pockets by being a good person. 

Gloria fired up the machines. 

“We can’t get more information from here.” Stiles’s phone beeped, his five minute warning. “I’ll go to those towns, start poking around those families and businesses. Whatever people don’t tell me… we’ll see if they’ll tell you.” 

Stiles saw the moment of remembrance flicker across Gloria’s face. The _he’s just a kid_ that Stiles knew most people couldn’t shake. Stiles stuck out his hand before she could amend the plan. 

“Sounds perfect. Keep your phone on you.”

She shook his hand with a firm, unwavering grip. 

“Be safe.” 

His dad’s cruiser was warm and he slid into the passenger’s seat with practiced ease. His dad waited for him to buckle his seatbelt before he pulled back out onto the road. The road hummed beneath the tires and after a few minutes, the Sheriff cleared his throat. 

“How were the librarians today?” 

“Eh,” Stiles hated how easy it was to lie. “Fine. Dorris was in a good mood so she didn’t mind me hanging around.” Stiles watched the road stretch out in front of them. “How was work?”

“Parrish brought in a bunch of kittens he found under his porch so… not a lot got done today.” 

He cracked a smile, the kind of smile he used to have in abundance before Claudia died. Slowly, those smiles had started to return. Stiles smiled back and he thought that maybe this was part of the reason his father had stopped. Did he trade honesty for feeling the same way before he’d been widowed? Was it worth swallowing lies as long as he could _believe_ that he was happy in the same way? 

They drove with the windows down and the radio playing the way they used to, and for a moment Stiles felt carefree and light as a feather. Queen played on the radio and it was _normal_ , back when the word normal still had meaning. 

Wind drifted through the windows and his dad turned to him with a smile on his face. 

“Want to grab a pizza?”

The autumn air was crisp and made Stiles’s cheeks rosy. Pizza was a special occasion sort of food that Stiles associated with childhood, before he had to start worrying about heart disease and his father’s cholesterol. Pizza was something that Stiles always politely declined with a sharp suggestion of a salad instead. 

His father took a curve and some leaves flew up on the side of the road. Stiles’s knuckles were white on his leg. 

“Sure,” Stiles shrugged. “Why not?” 

His father ruffled Stiles’s hair and Stiles swallowed the acidic lump in his throat. 

::::

The night when this all started, Stiles had stayed awake with his father

It had been dark, even the moon had hidden that night. His father’s weight on the bed was the only hint that he was there. Stiles rubbed sleep from his eyes as his father’s voice called to him. 

_Stiles… I need your help with something_. Stiles’s fingers bumped against his dad’s shoulder before he could grab it and squeeze. His father’s hand came to rest in Stiles’s hair, rubbing it the way he would when they both needed comfort. _Things are happening too fast to track in Beacon Hills. And no one seems to care._

His dad had sounded so lost. Stiles wrapped his arms around him. 

_I care_. His father’s grip tightened on him and his breath was short, and Stiles’s knew his father was crying even if he didn’t see it. _I do. We got this, dad_. Stiles grinned in the dark, though it was more like baring his teeth at the terror that loomed at his father. _They won’t know what hit ‘em._

He made a promise to his dad and Stiles had no intention of breaking it. 

Years after being woken up in the middle of the night, Stiles stepped off the bus to Beacon Hills Junior High. His heart beat fast in his chest as he kept pace with the other students. He moved with the flow, never stiffening when someone bumped against him. He didn’t talk to anyone because no one talked to him. The Sheriff’s kid got immunity from bullying, but that shield expanded to friendship as well. 

Stiles went to his locker and checked his phone. It was 7:20, the busses were still pulling in and Stiles had ten minutes to get to the east wing. Stiles put some books away in his locker and kept his bag slung over his shoulder. 

The tide changed as he deviated from his usual path to go to the east wing. The key was to not _look_ lost and then no one would notice him, no one would question why he was changing his routine because no one paid attention to him— 

“Hey, Stiles!” A hand fell on Stiles’s shoulder. Which never happened. Not in school. Not ever. Stiles turned to see a boy with a sweet smile and even _dimples_. “I uh, saw you at the holiday party. The big one.” Stiles shifted, a bit uncomfortable because his window was closing and the boy’s face fell. “I’m—”

“Scott!” Stiles snapped his fingers. “Sorry, it’s just been a while. You were there? I didn’t see you, I was dancing,” _like my life depended on it_ , “where were you?” 

“Oh I was just, sitting at the tables, mostly.” His smile was sheepish and a tad uncomfortable. Stiles remembered Scott from kindergarten, but once his mom died Stiles withdrew from everyone… and once his dad needed help with his investigation Stiles let everything else go on the backburner. “I can’t dance, not really. Plus I have asthma so…” 

He shrugged though it looked like it hurt. Stiles checked his phone.

“Next time you just do this,” Stiles bobbed his head and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And I’ll flail around you.” He squeezed Scott’s shoulder. “I’ll see you around, I gotta run to class.” 

Stiles turned and picked up the pace toward the east wing, ignoring the _“but don’t we have earth sciences together?”_ that followed him. East wing had a broken camera at one of its side exits, which was where Stiles slipped out of just as the bell rang. He darted behind the dumpsters that were just on the treeline, and then, keeping low to the ground, ventured into the forest. 

He took deep breaths until his heart slowed and he was past school visibility. Then it was just Stiles, breathing in fresh air as he walked three miles in the woods to an old creek where just on the other side Gloria’s car idled, waiting for him. 

Stiles opened the back passenger door and slid in, immediately laying down. Gloria turned, eyeing his rumpled clothes. Stiles just waved away her worries. 

“Just need to catch my breath.” 

The car shifted and soon they began to drive. Stiles laid on his back, watching the trees pass them by. Back before his mother died, car rides were moments of utter sanctuary. There was no safer place in Stiles’s young mind, than in a car with his dad behind the wheel. The sleep he got was deep and full of utter trust. 

Of course the older Stiles got the more he learned about car safety. It was naive, childish innocence that had viewed his dad’s car as the safest place on earth. 

As he laid in the back of Gloria’s car, he wondered if his trust in his father had also been childish. 

“Has anyone ever called you an old soul, Stiles?” 

Stiles snorted.

“Once.” A long, long time ago, Stiles remembered that phrase being directed at him. “You know it’s nothing extraordinary, right? I’m an only child, I’ve been talking to adults way longer than I’ve talked to anyone my age.” 

Gloria chuckled, dry and mature.

“Point taken.” She took a turn and Stiles felt the car rise and dip as they went over a speed bump. She slowed to a stop and parked her car. “But going to school and being exposed to other children would have remedied that. Did it?” 

Stiles swallowed around the tight knot in his throat and opened the opposite door, staring out at the bus station. 

“Nope,” Stiles popped the _p_ and glanced back at Gloria with a crooked smile. “Not one bit.” 

They had nine hours before Stiles had to be home. Nine hours where Stiles would take the bus to the south westerns town where there were a smattering of families that had all met with the mayor. Stiles was taking the train to get a more ground-floor approach while Gloria drove. They had text checkin-ins every two hours and four hours in they were going to meet at a diner owned by one of the families. Stiles felt hope grow in his chest for the first time in _too long_ as he watched the scenery from the train’s windows. 

He had four more stops until Stiles got off, until he would take the first steps towards showing his father that he didn’t have to be afraid, that together they could— 

The bus came to an abrupt halt at a station, the brake squealing and Stiles had to throw his hand up to catch himself on the seat. 

_“Our sincerest apologies, there is a problem with our vehicle. Please disboard and updates will be soon to follow.”_

Stiles blinked, moving fast to grab his backpack and join the other bewildered passengers as they stepped out onto the platform. The sun was high in the California blue sky and Stiles felt the wind on his back. He squinted at the town name. Isleton. 

Isleton... Isleton. It skittered along Stiles’s tongue, a reason why that name was important. He swallowed, his throat dry as he navigated through the small crowd of annoyed passengers. The bus stop was really just a street corner with an outhouse nearby. Stiles ventured out onto the street and stared out at the long stretch of asphalt, not a car in sight. He turned, to look back at the bus, at the driver who frowned at a tire and was mouthing something, something at looked a lot like nails, spikes, and Stiles remembered Isleton. 

It was the one town that had no ties to Peter at all, an ominously blank space. Twigs snapped, just to Stiles’s left, right as he felt something sharp sting his neck. He couldn’t scream, his entire body numb as strong hands gripped him and pulled him into the woods. 

::::

 _The key is to never forget what was normal, Stiles. Remember._

Normal was watching Saturday morning cartoons in his pajamas. Normal was going to school and looking forward to book fairs. Normal was family dinner being about companionship and sharing the day. Normal was tentative friendships made in gym class as teams were formed for field day. Normal was going to the craft store for a social studies project. 

Normal was never having to write his conversations with his father in silence. Normal was having a house that wasn’t bugged. Normal was not having piles of notebooks under his floorboards written in three different codes, one for his father, one for Gloria, and one for him. Normal was not having contingency plans. 

Waking up bleeding, bruised, and tied to a chair as the _snap_ of a camera went off… that was not normal. 

Stiles opened his eyes. His head was slack, his chin touching his chest. From what little he could make out, he’d been stripped down to his underwear and his body throbbed, twinged, and _stung_ as consciousness came crawling back to him. He saw red lashes across his chest, dark purple bruises that were almost black. His nose throbbed in time to his heartbeat. When he swallowed he tasted blood. 

“Wuh.” Stiles’s lips were numb. His tongue was numb. His face was completely numb, but flares of pain still registered when he struggled to speak. “Wuh-Wuh,” Stiles spit and he saw the arc of crimson saliva hit the plastic sheeting under him. “What’s… happening…?” 

Stiles blinked and he was in… a nice study, with a nice rug, bookshelves, desk… it all looked lived in. A man stood in front of him. An old man that Stiles had never seen before in his life. He held a camera and was dressed in… hunting clothes. 

“The first batch of photos should have been hand delivered to your stepfather hours ago.” 

Stiles looked to the windows but the curtains were tightly drawn shut. He had no idea what time it was. 

“I don’t have a stepfather.” 

The old man snorted. 

“Maybe not formally, but in everything but name. Mayor Peter Hale,” and Stiles bristled at the indignant fury that ripped through him, “will see what happens when he lets his pups out of his sight.” 

Stiles needed to know how much time had passed because he had a terrible headache and his eyes were struggling to focus. He needed to know if brain damage was something he needed to add to the growing list of _things to fucking worry about._ His breath stung his lips and he didn’t fight the tears that rolled down his cheeks. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know who you are.” Stiles’s wrists were tied behind him in the two-half-hitch style. His lip was split. His tongue was dry. He swallowed as much as he could and all he could taste was blood… but the two-half-hitch was familiar. Very familiar. “Peter Hale’s only connection to me is my father. It’s my dad that he cares about.” 

The words hurt. They shouldn’t hurt, but they did. Logically, Stiles knew that Peter wasn’t exactly a single father, he shouldered his family tragedy with grace. Derek and Cora turned out well, all things considering, and Peter was a busy man but… from what Stiles could tell he genuinely loved his niece and nephew.

Peter Hale didn’t have room for another child. A lover, sure. But not another kid. And really, there was nothing wrong with that. Besides, Peter was the one Stiles was investigating, he should be glad that Peter Hale had no room. 

What stung was that to Stiles it was apparent that Peter had no room… and his father either didn’t notice or didn’t care. 

Bitter clarity came to him, as clarity had a habit of doing in times of crises. 

Maybe that had been what this was all about. Less about revealing corruption, and more about a last-ditch desperate plea for his father to stay with him, to not abandon him. He sobbed and the old man smiled. 

“Don’t be obtuse. He’s been scent marking you every chance he gets. He lets you into his home regularly. I’m honestly surprised he hasn't given you the bite. I thought it would be certain that your wounds would heal, but you’re still human.” The old man paused. “I wonder if that means he hasn’t given it to your father either.” Stiles couldn’t feel his face, but it must have conveyed his confusion. The old man smiled, slow and slimey in a way that made Stiles’s legs tense and squeeze shut instinctively. “Ah. So you don’t know.” 

“I don’t,” the longer he was awake, the more Stiles’s ribs hurt. He sniffed and rubbed his wrists together, slowly. Back and forth, back and forth. “I don’t know what?”

Stiles waited to hear something he _did_ know. Peter Hale was funneling in money from unknown sources and investors? Check. Peter Hale had surveillance of the entire town that would put the KGB to shame? No shit. Peter Hale gently forced people he didn’t want in Beacon Hills to either move or simply… disappear? Yawn.

The old man’s withered lips and pulled back to expose his teeth in a yellowed grin. His hand fell on Stiles’s knee and Stiles jerked back, the chair’s legs dragging against the plastic. 

“He’s a werewolf.” 

Stiles’s body went slack. And the man waited, like Stiles was supposed to be hit with a wave of enlightenment and provide some kind of fucked up validation. His entire body was cold and all he could think was _oh God, he’s crazy, he’s fucking crazy._ His wrists slipped free just as all the lights in the building went out. 

Back-up lights, lower wattage, went up and the old man smiled. 

“Looks like the mayor has come for you.” 

There was movement outside. The door opened and a younger man stuck his head in. 

“Gerard, the power went out.” Stiles rolled his eyes as the old man, Gerard, fixed the man with a glared. “Sorry, sir. Just thought you’d, uh, want to know.” 

“Keep an eye out. That just means they’re coming, and we’ll be ready for them.” 

The young man who had no qualms about a bleeding fourteen-year-old tied up in a chair left as quickly as he came. Gerard stood and brushed off his legs. 

“Peter had my little girl killed. I want him to know what that feels like.” He turned. Stiles held his breath and slowly let the ropes coil on the floor. “I’ll be right back.” 

The lights flickered again and the entire house groaned. Stiles picked up the heavy, glass paperweight off of Gerard’s desk. 

::::

Stiles didn’t have his mother’s eyes and he didn’t have his father’s heart. Stiles’s teeth buzzed in his mouth as he clumsily navigated Gerard’s house. His tongue felt like clay in his mouth, heavy and earthy as he edged along the wall. 

Boots hit wood downstairs, there was shouting, and a door slammed open. He thought he heard guns cocking, Stiles couldn’t be sure. He swallowed, and moved, past pictures of grandchildren, family vacations, and Christmas cards. Gerard was a patriarch, and Stiles had struck him four times in the temple until he couldn’t keep his grip on the glass paperweight, his fingers too slick with blood. 

Gerard had crumbled, his body twitching and Stiles moved on. His arms were limp by his side as he slowly crept down the stairs, ears straining for any noise but he heard nothing. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose, the air felt strange, humid almost, as he opened the front door. 

It was dark. 

The lights on the porch were on but darkness stretched endlessly like a black sea. The boots that hit the wood moments ago were nowhere to be seen. Stiles blinked, his head _throbbing_ and his body hurt, it _really_ hurt and whatever numbing agent Gerard had given him was wearing off. He needed to escape. He needed a phone. 

Someone shouted, one of the voices from the house, something sharp and panicked. The air thickened and when Stiles breathed he tasted static. 

His bare feet touched the grass just as eight bolts of lightning screamed down from the sky. Stiles’s pupils shrank, his jaw slack as each electric streak hit men from the house, their wails high and unholy. Behind him, the porch door open with a _ker-whap_ and Gerard let loose a wet gurgle. Between the lightning that came with no rain, Stiles saw three figures _running_ to him. Peter, Erica, and Boyd’s faces were illuminated. 

Fingers scrambled on Stiles’s shoulder and he jerked forward, he didn’t dare look behind him as he ran. The lightning ended, long enough for Stiles to suck in air five times and for his heart to hammer against his damaged ribs.

Then the lightning returned, striking in the exact same place. Stiles thought _that’s impossible_ , as the same men were hit _again_ , wailing _again_. Then his eyes focused forward, and Peter, Erica, and Boyd had gotten much closer, only their faces… 

Their faces had changed. 

Peter opened his mouth full of fangs and _roared_.

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY. I've been looking forward to this installment. I hope y'all like it. It's been fun playing in this universe, a couple more installments are definitely still coming. Also, I love that song from Outcast and wanted to see if I could make it sinister. 
> 
> I am focusing on my personal/professional writing this year, so installments are going to take more time. Just letting y'all know.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/).


End file.
